“Holy Mary,” Jennet whispered reverently. “Lily, what have you done?”

She turned in a circle, trying to take it all in at once. Everywhere she looked, every inch of wall space was covered. Paper had been tacked up from floor to ceiling, and every paper was filled with Lily's work, drawing after drawing in lead or charcoal or ink. Her whole world was here: everyday items from buckets and shoes to chairs and doors, studies of trees and leaves and animals. A whole sea of human figures rolled across one wall, waves of hands and feet, eyes and noses and ears, floating aimlessly.

But it was the portraits that drew Jennet to them. Hundreds of portraits: Daniel running, holding a chicken under his arm, firing a musket, scowling, sleeping, laughing. Up the wall and down again Jennet could follow him through the years. They were all here, all the Bonners, and most of the villagers, a history drawn in quick and knowing strokes. Sometimes the drawing could not be contained by the paper and seeped out over the rough whitewashed walls: a forest in chalk, full of life and wind.

She stopped in front of a study of Luke, his hair tousled and his eyes half-cast, and she knew without a doubt that Lily had caught him as he got out of his bed, before he had had anything to eat. She reached out a finger to touch his chin, sure that she must feel the stubble there, and stopped herself. Instead she wrapped her arms around herself and turned.

In the very middle of the empty building was a single table with a chair beside it and a stool tucked beneath it. It was piled high with books and stacks of paper, cracked pottery cups filled with bits of charcoal, ink pots and quills, a small pile of stones, an empty bird's nest, a piece of broken glass. Jennet fell into the chair and spread out her arms.

“Cousin,” she said softly. “This work of yours will outlive us all.”

Lily opened her mouth as if to thank her and then shut it again, so sharply that Jennet heard the click of her teeth. When she had quieted herself she said, “Thank you, Jennet. That is the best compliment anyone has ever paid me.”

“And she had to come all the way from Scotland for you to hear it.”

Nathaniel Bonner was standing at the open door, his large frame filling the square of light. “I've had that thought many times, but I've never said it. For that I apologize, daughter.”

Lily's expression shifted from surprise to uneasiness to uneasy pleasure. “Da, what are you doing here?”

“It's too long since I came to visit.”

There was a small and tender silence. Jennet felt the warmth of it like the sunlight on her face.

Finally Lily said, “There's something wrong, isn't there.”

Nathaniel ducked his head to clear the low doorway and came into the middle of the empty meetinghouse. He hesitated, lifted his face into the light and then lowered it again to look at his daughter. This man called himself Bonner, but Jennet could not look at him without seeing Carryck in every bone. Just at this moment he reminded her so strongly of her own father that her eyes filled with warm tears.

In Nathaniel's expression she saw regret for pain about to be inflicted, and she knew what he had come to say.

Lily knew too. She had backed up until she was half sitting on the worktable, as if she must have this support to keep herself upright. Very calmly she said, “You're letting him go, aren't you? You're letting Daniel go to war.”

“At least you're consistent,” said Richard Todd, letting himself down into the straight chair beside the Widow Kuick's sickbed. “You'll neither pay me for my time nor will you follow my prescriptions.”

Richard's words hung in the air along with the hissing hitch and sigh of the old woman's breathing. The chamber was hardly big enough for the narrow bed and a chair; the shutters on the single window held in the early morning heat and the stench of old flesh gone soft, human waste, and sweat. Hannah knew that if she were to raise the woman on the bed she would find open sores the size of eggs on her back and buttocks and legs.

In the doorway stood Jemima Southern Kuick. She looked no different than she had when Hannah last saw her ten years ago. She was a sturdy woman, with plain, strong features and a mouth as curved and sharp as a sickle, and yet there was something different. She was angry; Hannah had never known Jemima to be anything but angry, but now weariness had the upper hand, or maybe—and this idea unsettled Hannah—it was not so much weariness as a resignation so complete that it went beyond despair.

Her daughter stood next to her and slightly behind, a slender girl who kept her eyes on the ground but even so hummed with curiosity.

Jemima said, “There's work in the kitchen, Martha.” Her tone was unmarked by affection or even concern; all her attention was on Hannah.

Martha Kuick's gaze flickered over the bed. The Widow—the woman she believed to be her grandmother—lay as peaceful and unmoving as a bundle of kindling loosely bound. The girl looked as if she meant to say something to the doctor, to ask a question or make a promise, but her courage failed her.

“The kitchen,” Jemima said again. “Now.”

When the girl was gone Richard said, “If you won't take proper care of this woman then hire somebody to do it.”

“I feed her,” Jemima said. “I wipe her shitty arse. I bathe her. Maybe not enough for your tastes, but then fine folks don't have to haul their own water, do they.”

She was talking to Richard and looking at Hannah. Her smile was meant to frighten, and still Hannah could find nothing inside herself but pity for the women in this house. It would make Jemima howl to know that, and so she kept her expression blank.